Highgarden, Oak Hall.
The replica Oak Throne loomed on its dais, carved with images of Garth Greenhand, the Gardener kings, and the Tyrell roses.
Greenhand stood for life, vitality, prosperity, and abundance.
Yet neither the Gardeners nor their Tyrell successors had ever truly earned his lingering favor.
The Tyrells claimed endless growth, but at their core they were Andal adventurers.
Now the faint remnants of Greenhand power drifted through the hall like schooling fish, like motes of light, pouring straight into Arthur.
A cool, refreshing sensation washed over him.
These remnants didn't just boost his Greenhand abilities—growth, vitality, seed-bank—they pushed every aspect of his body even higher.
Strength. Speed. Toughness. Perception. Recovery. Resilience. Magic resistance. True all-around overpowered stats.
Arthur felt a little like Bard, soaking up Greenhand light points.
Besides Highgarden, he might need to test his luck with House Yronwood or House Fowler. They were the ones who had burned the original castle centuries ago.
"Golden roses, green fields. Branch and leaf forever, ever-growing, ever-living." The singers and musicians Highgarden kept on retainer struck up their harps and fiddles.
Golden Rose songs praising House Tyrell.
Arthur happily absorbed the power while half-listening to the ballads.
The lyrics basically welcomed the guest, declared the Tyrells glorious and favored by Greenhand and the Gardeners.
By blood the Tyrells couldn't match the Florents or Rowans, but roses were excellent at picking the winning side.
On the high dais sat the Queen of Thorns, Mace and his wife Lady Alerie, and all four children.
This was what a harmonious, loving great house looked like—three generations together.
Honored guest Arthur and Ser Lucas Dayne.
Mace's uncle, Highgarden's seneschal, the plump Garth.
Alerie was the second daughter of Old Lord Leyton Hightower of Oldtown; her silver hair stood out like moonlight.
Lady Alerie was a few years younger than her husband, regal and dignified, a perfect match for the Lord of Highgarden.
They had an age gap, yet clearly still got along. Children kept coming, and no one ever whispered about Mace keeping mistresses.
"I welcome Arthur Whent, heir of Harrenhal, Ser Lucas Dayne, and all your retinue, in the name of the Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South. Let us also thank the Old and New Gods for their generous harvest," Mace Tyrell declared in ringing tones.
"May fortune bloom without end!" Mace finished, raising his golden rose goblet.
"Without end!" Every cup clashed together.
Arthur and Ser Lucas thanked Lord Mace for the warm welcome.
Mace was barely past thirty and already softening around the middle, yet he remained handsome and broad-shouldered.
Curly brown hair, beard trimmed into a neat triangle.
The Inflated Fish had been thoroughly mediocre on the tourney field and the battlefield alike.
If he had won even a couple of crowns, the singers Highgarden paid so handsomely would have turned him into a legend.
Talent lacking, he now pinned every hope on his sons.
"Truly a house of blooming roses," Arthur murmured, looking down at the sea of green-clad Tyrell kin.
House Tyrell was enormous.
Aside from the non-blood captain of the guard, maester, and master-at-arms, most of the people serving Mace were low-branch roses related by blood or marriage.
Even then, several cousins who had served him were already dead—some at the Battle of Ashford Meadow, others killed by the Smiling Knight.
Mace still had three uncles, two sisters, and brothers-in-law married into the Redwynes and Fossoways.
One uncle was seneschal of Highgarden; the other two were commander of Oldtown's city watch and a maester at the Citadel.
"Interesting arrangement," Arthur thought.
The roses and the Hightowers claimed to be inseparable.
But the Hightowers contributed almost nothing while lounging in the background; the roses would have been fools not to keep one eye open.
House Tyrell had even more bastards than the Tullys or the Starks.
Add Highgarden's legendary wealth, and the Tyrells—like the Hightowers and Lannisters—could afford to keep an entire army of cousins on the payroll.
Arthur had never seen a feast this extravagant. Dish after dish arrived in an endless parade.
He decided not to overthink it and simply enjoyed the food.
Huge lobsters, salmon, trout.
Venison pie stuffed with carrots, bacon, and mushrooms. Lamb chops glazed with honey and cloves. Spiced duck. Peppered boar.
Pure indulgence.
"Actually, I once rode to war myself, charging at the front of every tourney," Mace boasted once the wine hit him. "And I won the glorious Battle of Ashford Meadow."
"A truly glorious victory," Arthur said at exactly the right moment.
For the sake of this incredible meal and the Greenhand remnants, he was happy to stroke the man's ego.
Mace had spent his entire life riding Randyll Tarly's coattails.
"Yes, glorious indeed. You boys should all learn from Arthur here—he's the first of the young generation to truly shine," Mace told his sons, then turned the praise back on Arthur.
Arthur laughed. Now I'm the neighbor's perfect child.
"I'll challenge you again one day, Arthur," Garlan said solemnly.
"And me—I intend to become the Knight of Flowers," Loras added proudly, the cocky third son.
"Then I'd better keep training hard so you don't overtake me," Arthur joked.
"Go! Go!" the little doll Margaery cheered.
"I'm getting on in years now—better not embarrass myself on the field anymore. The future belongs to you young knights: Arthur, Willas, Garlan, Loras," Mace declared, walking over to clap Arthur on the shoulder, chest puffed with wine-fueled grandeur.
Mace wasn't actually that old, but his record was so poor he had quietly retired from the lists early.
"The Seven Kingdoms have lost a fine knight," Arthur said with perfectly feigned regret.
He and the Inflated Fish ate and drank together like old friends.
"Indeed, indeed." Mace looked as though he had finally found someone who truly appreciated him.
Why had no one else in all of Highgarden or the Reach ever noticed his knightly and martial genius?
This little bat was handsome, spoke beautifully, and knew exactly what to say.
Pity Margaery was reserved for an ancient royal—or higher—bloodline. Still, Mace could introduce Arthur to some distant rose cousins…
Never mind. He's heir to a Great House; those low branches probably wouldn't interest him. The wine made Mace abandon the thought.
"Enough, Mace. One more word and I'll crack that fat head of yours," the Queen of Thorns hissed.
Mace gave a sheepish grin.
The Queen of Thorns narrowed her eyes. This boy is truly cunning.
A talent monster like him could never respect a fool like Mace.
Everything was flattery and performance.
There were brave knights and clever knights, but the most dangerous were the ones who were both.
The music was lovely; tonight truly was a moving feast.
Mace's beautiful wife, Lady Alerie, rarely smiled. She focused on minding her youngest son and daughter.
First Hightower I've ever met in the flesh. Arthur studied her. That silver hair really is different from Andal or First Men blood. More like Targaryen—maybe even older, back to the Dawn Age.
Silver hair. Age gap with her husband.
Alerie had almost certainly not been Mace's first-choice bride.
Old Lord Leyton's eldest daughter was obsessed with some secret or possessed some gift that made marriage impossible.
So House Hightower had swapped the intended eldest for the second daughter.
"And a third secret," Arthur realized.
He felt it—fire.
Faint as a single thread, yet unmistakable.
Dragon blood. Hightower dragon blood.
Queen Alicent's green children had all died, except the possibly still-living "One-Eye" mistress Alys.
But Daemon Targaryen's daughter, the aunt of "the Usurper" Aegon—Rhaena—had eventually married into Oldtown and borne six daughters.
If any of those girls had wed into the main Hightower line, then every Hightower heir carried a trace of dragon blood.
Dragon blood plus dragon eggs… Is the Old Man of Oldtown and his daughter trying to hatch eggs? Arthur wondered.
The theory made perfect sense.
And it was worth any risk.